


Me and the Devil

by Unlawful_Villainy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alter Egos, F/M, Hurt, Longing, Manipulation, how does one tag, slight murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 13:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11967951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unlawful_Villainy/pseuds/Unlawful_Villainy
Summary: When Petyr Baelish was 15, he created Littlefinger, a mask to hide the pain he'd endured at Lysa Arryn and Brandon Stark's hands. However, Littlefinger has taken over, controlling all of his actions, and Petyr can do nothing but watch. When threatened with death at the hands of the woman Petyr loves, will he be strong enough to finally fight off Littlefinger?





	Me and the Devil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moffnat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moffnat/gifts).



From where I sit, I can see his every move. Curled in the corner, it’s rather simple to look through the bars of my cell and watch every single thing he does with me. With my body. He controls every move I make, and all I can do is watch.

He calls himself Littlefinger. Actually, I named him that - named him when I was 15. He began as a mask I put on to hide the pain. The physical pain of the wound Brandon Stark gave me, and the pain of remembering the night after that duel. I remember it in bits and pieces. They told me afterwards that I’d been given milk of the poppy, but I know what I felt. And I know it was Lysa.

I knew that I had to be strong. No one would believe that a man could be used by a woman like that. Men in Westeros are supposed to be strong. I was supposed to enjoy it. But all I could feel was emptiness. So I put on the mask, became Littlefinger, became the ambitious man who wanted to rule the continent because I needed something to distract from the memories and the nightmares that came when I when I was alone with nothing but my thoughts. Eventually, though, I let him take over. I retreated deep inside my mind, never becoming more than a broken fifteen-year-old boy who just wanted to run and hide. So that’s what I did. And Littlefinger took over.

I was content with his scheming and corruption. I knew that Cat had married another man and that Lysa had used me, and so I saw no reason to engage with the world, for the world is cruel and there is no place for a man like me. Littlefinger knew this. He knew how to climb the ladder, so he did. Once, I said to Varys that if I was on the throne, all the lords and ladies around me would be dead. I’m not sure if that was me or Littlefinger. Maybe a little bit of both. Littlefinger is the one who supplied the idea, but I latched onto it. It would be a pleasure to watch them die, I thought. All those who’d laugh and sneer if they knew what happened to me. I would have them all killed.

And then we met Sansa.

I loved her from the moment I laid eyes upon her. She was so like her mother, but I loved her more than I ever loved Cat. I didn’t know love was possible until I saw her. Littlefinger saw her as nothing more than an opportunity to rise up in the world, to associate himself with the Starks, but I only cared for Sansa. I only wanted her to be happy. I only wanted to love her.

And then he took her to the Vale.

I’d been building up a partnership with Littlefinger for months. I had convinced him that we both wanted the same things, more or less, and we should work together. All that ended the night he rescued her from Joffrey’s wedding. I’d helped him with that, with getting Ser Dontos to bring her to us, but the moment he pulled her into his ship he locked me in a cage and threw away the key. Metaphorically speaking. I couldn’t do anything, try as I might to yell out and tell her to run, run away, and don’t stop running until he could never catch her, but I could do nothing but struggle against the bars of my cell and watch, fruitlessly, and they sailed to the Vale.

You can’t imagine what seeing Lysa again did to me. Though I’d spent the whole trip trying to free myself, the sight of her threw me to the floor, where I lay, curled in a ball sobbing hopelessly, and Littlefinger married her. On the wedding night he would periodically rattle the bars or hit them with a sword to keep me up, making me watch every single moment. I hated myself even mor after that, hated how useless and cowardly I was, that I, a grown man, could be reduced to tears over such a matter. And then came the morning in the garden, when he kissed Sansa, and I hated him for that, too, because he only wanted to control her and manipulate her, and he didn’t love her, he didn’t know how to love. I nearly broke free in that moment. She gave me the strength to nearly cave in the bars that surrounded me, but he was too strong. Had I finally controlled my own body for the first time in countless years, I would have collapsed into her arms and told her everything, and I would have apologised again, and again, and again, for everything that I’d ever done, but I wasn’t strong enough and I doubted myself.

Then he pushed Lysa out of the Moon Door. I will admit that that gave me a certain sadistic pleasure, seeing the bitch that had done such things to me and caused me such trauma falling to her death, but it was all undone by his next move. Marrying Sansa to Ramsay Bolton.

He would say later that he didn't know, that he made a mistake, but no one makes a mistake on Ramsay Bolton. It’s impossible to be in his position and not know about what Ramsay would do to her, and I’m not entirely sure that it wasn’t partly to spite me. Littlefinger is a sadistic man, though he hides it well and often reigns it in, and I am ashamed to admit that this nearly broke me. I cannot imagine the pain she must have gone through, nor the things he must have done to her. And then, when she was free, he went back to her, another step in his plan to manipulate everyone into doing his every wish, and offered her the knights of the Vale, pretended to be sorry and repentant so that he could weasel his way into her mind and make her do things for him. I will say, however, that trying to drive the Stark sisters apart was my idea. He told her those things, taught her those lessons, but he was also teaching me, and I though I am a slow learner I am not a fool. I told him that it would be good idea, to try and drive apart two sisters closer than ever before, and I knew that it would get him - and me - killed. But I did not care. I was finished with his manipulation, his schemes. He started this war. Now I was going to finish him.

The first step was getting that letter. I knew that Arya would follow me everywhere; I gave her suspicion enough to do so, but ensured that she had just enough trust in her sister to bear it out. I knew that she would confront Sansa, and Sansa would come to me, so when she finally did to I was able to whisper just the right things in Littlefinger’s ear to make Sansa suspicious about him. And that is how we got to here.

“How do you answer these charges… Lord Baelish?”

He’s confused and caught off-guard. I can see it in his every movement as his breathing speeds up and he thinks frantically - all traits he keeps hidden from the gathering at large, of course.

“My sister asked you a question.”

I can see him panicking now, and he’s getting angry. From my corner, I hide a grin as he answers the only way he can without implicating himself.

“Lady Sansa, forgive me… I’m a bit confused,”

“Which charges confuse you?”

Inside our mind, he waits with baited breath, frantically thinking up excuses and defences.

“Let’s start with the simplest one; you murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn, you pushed her through the Moon Door and watched her fall, do you deny it?”

I can no longer hide my smile, but there is no joy in it, only savage vindication as I watch him realise that his charming exterior can no longer hide the murderer underneath; though I will admit that I rejoiced in this killing, and still do. I may still be nothing more than a fifteen-year-old boy, unallowed to mature and age beyond his grief and ruined childhood, but this murder gives me some semblance of revenge.

He stands still, knowing that the three-eyed raven can simply reveal his lies if he does deny it, so he chooses the answer he thinks will save him.

“I did it to protect you.”

“You did it to take power in the Vale.”

Though I cannot attest to any part in this, I am so proud of Sansa. I know that she can see right through every lie he’s ever told her, and she will take him to his grave.

“Earlier you conspired to murder Jon Arryn; you gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him, do you deny it?”

He sees a thread he can pick at here, and seizes the opportunity.

“Whatever your aunt may have told you, she was a troubled woman. She imagined enemies everywhere.” But Sansa is done with hearing his carefully worded answers, and spits out the next charge.

“You had aunt Lysa send a letter to our parents telling them it was the Lannisters who murdered Jon Arryn when really it was you. The conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, it was you who started it, do you deny it?”

He is beginning to realise now that his master plan, his house of cards, is beginning to tumble. Though I know that this will only end one was - with our death - I cannot help but laugh at him. Furious, he turns to me and hisses “I’ll deal with you later,” before returning to the matter at hand.

“I know of no such letter.”

“You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father Ned Stark. Thanks to your treachery, he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason; do you deny it?”

I know that there is no way out now, but he has another argument, one that I know will not work.

“I deny it! None of you were there to see what happened. None of you knows the truth.”

It’s a weak argument and he knows it. But at this moment I remember something; Bran Stark, the three-eyed raven. He has visions, and all in the hall know of them. I sit upon the stone floor, eager to see what he will say, for I know he will correct him, and he does not disappoint.

“You held a knife to his throat.”

I begin laughing, knowing the the raven will lay out everything that happened, and Littlefinger has no way out know. He knows it too, I think; he has gone white, and I can see real panic set in under the carefully maintained mask. He turns to the raven, and I can see the end approaching.

“You said ‘I did warn you not to trust me.’”

He finally realises my part in all this, and comes to my cage, reaching through the bars towards me. For the second time in my life, I feel strong, knowing that I brought all this upon him, and he cannot break them or get close to me. He is breathing heavily, furious, but all I can do it laugh, and repeat “I did warn you not to trust me,” to his face as he pulls madly at the cell he threw me in. Outwardly, he merely frowns, but he does not get a chance to respond before Arya speaks up behind him.

“You told our mother this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister,” she says, drawing the dagger at her side - my dagger. “But that was another one of your lies. It was yours.”

Turning on the spot, he can see that he has nowhere to go. He realises the same thing I do; his last vestige of hope is Sansa. He rushes to the table where she sits, and even outwardly his mask begins to slip. Inside, he has given up on the bars and me, and is pacing, trying to figure out if there is a way he can live.

“Lady Sansa, I’ve loved you since you were a girl, I protected you-” Even I know that that was the wrong thing to say, and she interrupts him immediately.

“Protected me? By selling me to the Boltons.”

I know straight away that there is no hope for him left, but it is clinging to a way to get out of this alive.

“If we could speak alone, I can explain everything.”

There is pause which stretches on into infinity as she looks at us with contempt.

“Sometimes when I’m trying to understand a person’s motives I play a little game.”

She pauses again. I’m certain it’s only a second or two, but the Sansa in front of us slows to a stop and time seems to stand still. Inside my cage, I am laughing louder than I have ever laughed before, because I know that I caused this. I whispered in Littlefinger’s ear these exact words only a days earlier, and he repeated them back to her. He knows this too, he’s realised it, and he is so angry that he charges at my cage with all his might, but his might is not enough because now, now he is weak, and I am in control. It’s a simple thing to bend the bars and step out, facing him. As he rushes at me, I pivot lightly to one side, and he misses, running headlong into the cell that he kept me in for all those years. But I know all too well how dangerous he is, and I waste no time in picking up the sword he left lying on the floor. By now he has recovered, but any semblance of logic he ever possessed is gone, burnt away in his rage, and it’s all too easy to step out of the way of another thoughtless charge and conjure up a cage around him, and it hits me: I am free. I am once again in possession of my own mind and body. But there is, by now, no escape from the situation I am in, no way to tell Sansa in a way that she will believe me that I am different, I am sane, and I love her more than she can ever know. But the sensation is strange. There is no life I want to live without her, knowing that Littlefinger has hurt so many. So I close my eyes and stand up straight, accepting what fate may come as Sansa continues.

“I assume the worst. What’s the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister. That’s what you do, isn’t it, that’s what you’ve always done. Turn family against family, turn sister against sister, that’s what you did to our mother and aunt Lysa, and that’s what you tried to do to us.”

I am acutely aware of Arya circling around me to stand at my right, and though I know it’s fruitless, I cannot help but hope.  
“Sansa, please.” But she continues as if she’d never heard me.

“I’m a slow learner, it’s true. But I learn.”

I have been too engrossed in the conversation, and from behind me I feel someone tackle me and pin me to the ground. It’s Littlefinger, and he is in control once more. As I struggle beneath him, he answers her.

“Give me a chance to defend myself. I deserve that.”

The last sentence makes me fight even harder, because I know what kind of person he is, I created him, but to my relief Sansa simply sits back and lowers her eyes. Littlefinger turns us around, fixing his eyes on Lord Royce. Quietly, I edge one hand towards the dropped sword on the floor.

“I am Lord Protector of the Vale, and I command you to escort me safely back to the Eyrie.”

The tension between us is so thick I can practically grasp it, as we wait with baited breath for Lord Royce’s answer. While he is distracted, though, I shove him as hard as I can, throwing him off me and pulling the sword towards me. He falls backwards, and I plunge it into his chest. For a few seconds he struggles. But then he dies, and I am left alone, finally, in my mind.

“I think not.”

As I pull myself to my feet, I hear Lord Royce’s answer, and I smile with relief and acceptance, closing my eyes temporarily. I know what the sentence will be now, and I have nothing else to do but tell her I love her. Finally in control of my own body, I walk to the centre of the hall and fall to my knees facing her. And now I cannot keep the tears in, the tears I have shed inside for years whenever I see what Littlefinger has done to people, to Sansa, and I know exactly what to say.

“Sansa, I beg you,”

My voice breaks on the last word and I pause for a second, trying to recollect myself. I know that everyone in the hall will think I am begging for my life. No, I think to myself, though I dare not say it, I am begging for her to see me for who I am, and that I love her. I am not Littlefinger any more. I am Petyr Baelish, and I will die as Petyr Baelish, not Littlefinger, not Lord Baelish, just… Petyr.

“I loved your mother since the time I was a boy,”

“And yet you betrayed her.” The coldness in her voice breaks my heart all over again, and now I cannot keep the tears in. There is no defending myself or Littlefinger’s actions. Though he was a mask, he was a part of me and my own creation. I can only tell her the truth. That I loved her.

“I loved you,” I begin, trying to control my voice as best I can, “more than anyone.”

“And yet you betrayed me.”

I am silent. There is nothing else to say.

“When you brought me back to Winterfell you told me there’s no justice in the world, not unless we make it. Thank you for all your many lessons, Lord Baelish. I will never forget them.”

Were I not crying I would smile. I am content with my death, I realise. This is more than I deserve. As much as I would like to think that Littlefinger and I were two separate people, the cold truth is that he is and always was a part of me. Perhaps I deserve to die that I may answer for his crimes.

Arya moves forward, walking towards me, a hand on my dagger. At least I can die with her name on my lips.

“Sansa.”

And then there is the cold ringing of metal on metal, the blade slicing across my throat, and the spray of wam blood from my neck. Sansa and I are still looking at each other, and I can see that my tears are mirrored on her face. I bring my hand to my neck, trying to stem the flow of blood, trying to see her for even a few more seconds. Faintly, I can hear choking sounds, and I realise that it’s me, dying. I try to spit out a few more words. I want her to know. _I love you_. But then there is darkness, and no more pain, and I am dead.

**Author's Note:**

> Although I don't know their ao3 name, this work is for @petyrbaelish on tumblr, whose meta analysis of Petyr's last scene literally made my cry. Go heap praise upon them and check out their blog.


End file.
